Replay
by Jacquzy
Summary: The sequel to "Playtime." Feliciano wants it to happen again; wants the burn of leather, the slice of the whip, the more, master, please, to be become a part of their everyday lives.
1. Chapter 1

This is the sequel to my other ItaGer fic, "Playtime," which you can find under the "My Stories" tab. You don't have to read that to understand this, but it does help!

I really appreciate reviews!

Enjoy!

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><p>One month. It has been one month, exactly (ish, Feliciano thinks, because counting down dates and days of the week, and anything to do with numbers and organization isn't his strong point, really) since Ludwig sank down on his knees before him, and asked to be tied up, and whipped, and cuffed, and gagged – one month since the best sex Feliciano has ever, ever, ever had, in his whole life, ever – one month too long to wait for it to happen again.<p>

Ludwig wants it to happen again, Feliciano knows, and _he_ definitelywants it to happen, and had he not known his lover as well as he does, it would have been something of a puzzle for him; why they haven't done it again yet. But Feliciano does know Ludwig; knows him as well as he knows the back of his own hand, as well as he knows pasta, as well as he knows North Italy – the rolling green hills, and the sink and sway of the Venetian gondolas, and the suck and shine of the golden beaches. And he knows that Ludwig is not frightened, or angry, at himself or at Feliciano. No; Ludwig is just...Ludwig. He is awkward, when it comes to sex, which is strange, because, a) he's very good at it, and b) he likes it, a lot. Feliciano supposes that sex is just one of those things which turns Ludwig's face scarlet. It's just – Ludwig.

They have had sex since then, of course – both of them, thank goodness, have high sex-drives (though his partner is perhaps a little better at containing his own), and it is good – sex with Ludwig is always good; after all, they've been together so long each of them knows exactly how to push the other's buttons; how to make him squirm, and moan, and spread his legs, and cry out in ecstasy...

Feliciano has to shake his head a little, as he considers this. He is, apparently, far too easily distracted. Though there's nothing wrong, he thinks cheerfully, with being distracted by images of a feral, wanton, devilishly handsome German who is ready to simultaneously mess him up and be tied to the bedposts whilst doing so. Nothing wrong with that at all.

But here is the problem: Ludwig, for all his tactical genius and organisational skills, is a surprisingly un-straightforward kind of guy. Feliciano isn't sure if "un-straightforward" is even a real word, but when it comes to describing Ludwig in relation to uncomfortable topics of conversation, it sums him up beautifully.

No...whenever he slides down onto the sofa, tucks his legs up beneath him, and slides a hand subtly, very subtly (that is the key, mon cher, Francis had told him, winking, subtlety) onto the taller man's thigh, Ludwig coughs, and blushes, and busies himself with a book, or the newspaper, or the TV remote, and sometimes even shoots away to the other side of the room because of some terrible pressing concern he absolutely _must _attend to _at this very second._

It is, all told, a little demoralising. And besides, how on earth should he ask for the kind of sex he actually wants? "Hey, Ludi, I know last time you said you wanted to do it again, but we haven't yet, and I was wondering if tonight I could, you know – handcuff you to the bed and whip you just the way you like it?"

Ludwig's head might explode, he thinks, and giggles in spite of himself.

Whenever they do have sex, it is as ordinary as it was before the incident with the bondage tape, and the gag, and the maid's outfit (not that that is a bad thing – it's great sex, really great sex.) What makes Feliciano sigh, in all honesty, is that he has to either wait for Ludwig to initiate something – when the lights are out, so his Italian partner doesn't see the blush on his cheeks; or when he's drunk, which is always less fun; or, bright red and focusing his eyes determinedly upon the floor, muttering something along the lines of, "it has come to my attention that we haven't...ahem...in a few days, and, er –"

This is not what Feliciano wants.

Feliciano wants it to become a natural process; an utterly normal, and yet utterly wild, arousing, maddeningly hot and sensual part of their everyday lives. He wants to wake up, kiss each and every one of the red stains and bitemarks and bruises on his beloved's pale skin, laze around in bed until Ludwig jumps out and snaps at him that they're going to be late for work, eat breakfast far too quickly, shower, bumping into one another as they run in and out of the bathroom, do paperwork, meet for lunch in a cafe with soft music, holding hands under the table, attend meetings, make phonecalls, come home, walk the dogs, have dinner, watch a movie, go upstairs, tie his lover up, whip him, scratch him, ride him, fuck him, finally, finally, let him come when the sheets are twisted with sweat, hold one another close, turn out the lights, and fall asleep with their legs tangled under the blankets.

Surely, this isn't too much to ask for? (Without, of course, actually asking. Because if he does that, he knows Ludwig will turn bright red, and stutter, and edge away...)

But no matter; Feliciano has a plan. A plan that, admittedly, has not been thought through particularly thoroughly, but a plan nonetheless.

Feliciano is going to seduce Ludwig.

This is not an especially difficult task for him to undertake – he's been doing it for quite some time now. However, this particular seduction will be something a little different. He has thought about it, long and hard, and come to the conclusion that what happened last time, in Ludwig's bedroom, beside the closet, with all that bondage equipment strewn across the carpet and the cute dress about his thighs and waist, was, in fact a seduction. An accidental one; but a seduction nonetheless.

A seduction which led to the most mind-blowing, fulfilling, completely perfect perfect _perfect _sex he's ever had.

So doesn't it make sense for him to do a similar thing again?

Yup, he thinks, and giggles to himself, and claps his hands.

The very first thing to do, then, he decides, one day, while in the shower (all of his best ideas come to him whilst in the shower) is to sneak onto Ludwig's computer.

Ludwig has two computers; one is a laptop he takes to work with him, and is full of really boring stuff like reports and trading indexes, and it makes Feliciano want to take a nap just _thinking _about it. And the second one he keeps at home, and uses for watching TV shows he's missed, and looking up sports results, and watching the videos of dramatic hamsters his brother emails to him. And porn.

Well. Feliciano isn't one hundred percent sure about that last one. Maybe seventy percent.

He hopes he does watch porn on it, because Ludwig watching porn on this particular laptop is the key to his whole plan.

The only difficulty with this, though, is that Feliciano is absolutely terrible with computers. He can change the wallpaper to a picture of a cute kitty (and does, regularly, on Ludwig's work laptop, much to his partner's annoyance, though Feliciano doesn't understand why; surely everyone loves kitties?) and just about handle a Google search, but other than that, he is fairly clueless.

So he waits until a day when Ludwig has a meeting to go to; and then as soon as he is out of the door, he seizes the phone, and the laptop, and calls Kiku.

"Hello?"

"Ve, hello, Kiku!" Feliciano says cheerily, and Kiku says hello too, and is he having a pleasant day?

"Ah, si, si, I am, thank you, but I wondered if you could tell me how to find the pornography on Ludi's computer?"

There is a moment of silence, then Kiku chokes down the phoneline, "E-excuse me?"

"I need to find out what kind of pornography Ludwig likes to watch. How do I do that? The computer's on."

Kiku attempts to speak a couple of times; then heaves a heavy sigh, and says: "I don't...I'm not sure if I – I'm comfortable with this, Feliciano."

"Just tell me quickly then, ve," Feliciano says, and clicks around the screen a few times.

There is another long, uncomfortable silence. Finally, Kiku exhales down the line, and says, "Feliciano. I – I don't –"

"Please!" says Feliciano, and Kiku sighs again. He is weakening, Feliciano realises, and thinks back on the military training he received from Ludwig back during the Great Wars. Once they are weakened, wear them down. "Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please –"

"All right!" Kiku interrupts, sounding rather nervous and extremely harried. "All right. So...go – go to the menu...find the button that says 'My Documents.'"

"Uh – oh, ah, I see it. Should I click it?"

"Yes."

He does so. "And now there are a whole bunch of things. Hey, Kiku, this looks really boring. It looks like business stuff."

"Mmm," says Kiku. He sounds a little exasperated. "But look closely, Feliciano. Are there any folders that look strange? Any with names that don't quite make sense?"

"No," says Feliciano, and sighs. This is too much like hard work, he thinks. "Ve – isn't there an easier way of doing this, Kiku, huh?"

"Alright," says Kiku, "Go online."

"On the internet, right?"

"Yes, yes..."

Feliciano bites his bottom lip as he locates the icon for the internet. "Okay!"

"Right. Go to his history."

"Uh –"

"What browser are you using, Feliciano?"

"Um..."

"What is the internet's name?" he says, quickly.

He sounds somewhat frustrated, Feliciano thinks. It's no wonder. Computers are hard. "Well, on the, er – menu thing – it says...Google...Chrome?"

"Alright." Another heavy sigh. "There's a picture of a wrench in the top right-hand corner. Click it, and then click on the –"

"It says 'History!'" Feliciano cries. "Kiku, I did it, it says 'History!' Ve, Ludi's going to be so proud of me for figuring it out..."

"I don't doubt it."

"And now there's a long list. Oh, gosh, this is too hard for me. What now, Kiku?"

"Ah, Feliciano, I –" Kiku pauses, and Feliciano listens attentively for his next instructions. Kiku says nothing, and so he begins to click about at random once again. Then suddenly –

"Oh."

"What is it now?" Kiku says, impatiently.

"It's gone." He waits for Kiku to respond; but he says nothing, so he continues. "The lights on the computer went off. And the screen's black. Kiku, what –"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Feliciano," Kiku says all at once, "But, er, I have to go. There's an emergency. My, uh...uh...goodbye." And the line falls dead.

Feliciano flops back into the sofa, disappointed. He had been so sure that Kiku would be the one to speak to! He knows an awful lot about confusing technology after all. He purses his lips; tilts his head up, and back in thought. But then again...perhaps he doesn't need someone who's good with computers. Perhaps he needs someone who'd know lots about porn. Re-invigorated, he smiles, and jumps up, and goes to call Francis instead.

Not only is Francis a whole lot more enthusiastic about Feliciano's idea than Kiku, he's also a whole lot more helpful. He actually comes round to Ludwig's house to help him locate the hidden pornography files – and then offers to stay and "analyse" them once they have been unearthed. Feliciano thanks him graciously, but insists he will manage just fine on his own, thank you very much. Francis seems rather put-out by this, but he ruffles Feliciano's hair, and leaves, eventually, after throwing a few wistful glances in the direction of the laptop.

So Feliciano settles back in his seat, and opens up the files, and begins to watch.

And he watches. And he watches. He watches the sharp flash and the tight _smack _of the riding crops; the bright slick of the leather; the dull slap and squeak of belts...breath tightens, knees buckle, panting, panting, panting...and they are on their knees, on their hands and knees, moaning, gasping, mouths stretched wide, mouths bound shut, lips glistening with saliva and pearls...

And the thick, scarlet slices lacing, adorning those open backs glow from the screen, scream from the screen, and Feliciano grips the cushions tightly, digging his fingers and his nails into the fabric, and something is caught in his throat, and his breath is quickening, and oh, God, at what point did he become this aroused?

He has to pause the videos – more than once – to satisfy that base want, the primordial throb, need, demand of his tightened, sweat-slicked body. And then, shining and soft, slumped back against the cushions, he clicks "play" again, and watches once more the whipping, the binding, the caressing, the choking, the moaning, and the sounds ring in his heated ears, and the sights – the gleam of skin, the thud of black, the burning tug and squeal of the rope – fill his head, his vision, heat his body, fill him to the brim – and he sees again why Ludwig adores this so.

He hardly notices the men and the women in long leather boots, and gloves, and suspenders, whips and chains in hand – really, he only has eyes for the shivering, desperate creatures on all fours, flushed with desire, begging, pleading for _more, please, mistress; more, please, master – _and he wonders what it would be like to have Ludwig call _him _master, and all of a sudden he is accosted by an image of Ludwig, down on his knees, cheek pressed against his, Feliciano's, stocking-covered thigh, and he can _feel _the fast thud of Ludwig's heart, the heat of his skin, the tiny trembles ricocheting through tense, strong muscle, curled and submissive at his feet...

He slams the laptop shut, and pushes it away. He is hard, and wanting again, but he knows if he gets himself off he'll be too tired for phase two of his plan. He's already come twice today, and he isn't sure how much longer he can go. He's not particularly durable, after all; whereas Ludwig can go all night, if he wants to.

A warm sensation blooms in his stomach; and he stands up, gingerly, feeling rather sticky, and a little guilty, and a lot excited. He limps upstairs, and takes a cold shower, and then begins to prepare for the evening ahead.

And when Ludwig comes home, calling his partner's name, and walks into the sitting room, with his tie loosened and his jacket thrown over one arm, and he sees his lover, sitting on the arm of the big sofa, wearing those _damn _stockings, and that _damn _underwear he wore the time before, and not much else, holding a crop, with rope and handcuffs and a gag and lube arranged around his feet, and _smirking, _outright _smirking, _he drops his briefcase, and his mouth falls open, and his lovely blue eyes widen, and it is right about now that Feliciano realises that, for the first time in his life, he has managed to carry out a thoroughly successful campaign.

He swings his legs off the sofa; hops down, and moves across the room towards his stunned partner.

"Ludi," he says, and taps the crop against his own slender fingers, "take your clothes off and kneel down for me, please?"

And Ludwig obeys so quickly he doesn't even have time to turn red.


	2. Chapter 2

And so – Ludwig, his beautiful, clever, kind Ludwig (his; his) within two minutes of walking in through the front door, a few strands of hair out of place from sensible endeavour and steadfast effort, his tie slightly loosened and his jacket slung over a forearm – is on his knees at Feliciano's feet, eyes wide and trained solely upon his lover's face, as naked as the day he was born.

"Good...good boy," Feliciano manages to say.

He is, he has to admit, a little surprised. He had thought that the other man would bluster, and stutter, and turn deep scarlet, dithering in the centre of the living room, lust and embarrassment and concern for the state of his carpets all fighting deep within his stomach –

But no. Instead, he has Ludwig – _his, _his good-looking, perfect Ludwig – before him, ready and willing, lips parted, silent and waiting. Feliciano takes his sweet time in trailing his gaze all over his lover's body; down the smooth, strong column of elegant white neck; over the submissive slope of those round, muscular shoulders; across those flat, defined pectorals he knows from experience are smooth and hard and taste just _delicious, _and down, down, down that toned stomach, which flutters beneath his eyes in anticipation of caresses, of kisses, of sharp smacks and rough bites...Feliciano's mind begins to wander.

"Ludi," he says, and smiles. "Ludi – I want to tie you up. Are you going to be a good boy and let me?"

Ludwig nods, his painfully blue irises not leaving Feliciano's own brown ones for even a second. "Yes."

"Ah, Ludwig is so good!" he says, happily, and it's true; not just for his partner's comfort. Ludwig is everything anyone could ever wish for, really. Sometimes, Feliciano wakes up in the morning before his blond companion (admittedly, not very often, but still – sometimes) and he just sits, propped up against a pillow, his hand resting against his lover's back, and he thanks God – over and over and over again – for the gift of Ludwig – and he wonders why a flawless man like his lover would ever even bother to look at somebody as clumsy and careless and silly as he is.

And yet – for whatever reason – he did. And Feliciano is eternally grateful for this.

"So good," he says, one more time, just for good measure, and runs his fingers briefly through Ludwig's hair. Ludwig's eyelids tip down; and the corners of his lips begin to quirk up.

"Ve – if it feels good, you should smile, si?" Feliciano says. "Properly!"

And his lover tries again for him. His second smile isn't much wider; but it's getting there.

Feliciano laughs. "Fetch me the rope, please," he says, and removes his hand from the other's scalp. "It's on the sofa."

He does as he's told, shuffling there and back upon his knees.

"Ah, good, so good!" Feliciano exclaims, upon being presented with what he asked for, and moves behind the other to secure his partner's wrists at the base of his spine. "This is good, si? Yes? It doesn't hurt, Ludi?"

"It's fine," says Ludwig; and he tips his head back a little, so that it brushes against the top of Feliciano's thigh. "It's good."

"Bene!" Feliciano bends to kiss him. "Oh, hey – if you – if you get scared, what will you say?"

"Red," says Ludwig. He doesn't even blink – doesn't even pause to consider.

Feliciano giggles. "Ohhh. You've been thinking about this, Ludi."

The other man blushes; but says not a word.

Feliciano moves away; sits down on the sofa, spreading his legs, just enough so that his lover, from his kneeling position on the floor can see the tops of his stockings; the swell in his underwear cushioned against his inner thighs. He lets a hand fall on top of his leg, and pats it, smiling happily.

"Ve...come here then, please!"

Ludwig moves towards him dutifully, hindered somewhat by the way his hands are tightly bound behind his back, the gaze which stretches and warms between the two of them never breaking or falling. Feliciano watches him intently, loving the strain of those strong muscles; the way Ludwig's eyes flash and yearn; and dim with something calmer, more appealing, more subservient. He is so gorgeous; so lovely, so perfect, and for a second Feliciano considers throwing everything he has done so far out of the window, and then himself at his lover, and just losing himself in that strong, delicious, body...he can practically feel Ludwig's legs knotting with his; their stomachs, smooth with sweat, dragging and sticking; a waist, toned and hard and hot rubbing incessantly between his loose, bawdy thighs, the jerk of tender hips, a breathy "I love you," his own or the other's – it does not matter.

He feels, suddenly, a warm puff of air against his leg – real, this time – and he realises he has just slipped into another daydream. Ludwig is on the carpet at his feet, between his shins, cheeks slightly pinked and eyes boring into his own.

"Ah!" Feliciano says, and tries to get back on track. He has to be really good at this, otherwise Ludwig won't want to do it again. "Good, Ludi." He reaches out, and runs his fingers through his lover's golden hair once more. "Good, good."

Ludwig pushes briefly into the gentle touch – then something strange comes over him, as the day and reality creep into those lovely eyes. He looks rather embarrassed, and falls still, his face expressionless; his gaze flickering between Feliciano's face and the floor, which seems to be growing more interesting to him by the second.

Well. This isn't so good. Feliciano sighs. He doesn't want his lover to feel embarrassed about things like this. He wants him to feel comfortable, and excited, and happy – not ashamed.

Ludwig sits still between his legs, jaw tightened, face flushed, just a little bit, apparently torn between pleasure and shame. Feliciano shifts forwards a tad, pushing his hips out and splaying his legs as he does so. Ludwig's blue eyes catch the movement – hold it – and, slowly, hesitantly, he cranes his neck, shuffling forth a little more, a little more, opening his mouth to wet his lips –

Feliciano likes a good blowjob as much as the next guy, but this isn't what he wants to do right now.

"Hey – no, no," he says, and his fingers curl and clench down tightly in his lover's soft hair.

The reaction is instantaneous. At once, Ludwig's whole body lurches; his shoulders round over, pitch forward, and Feliciano can chart the progress of the hot buzz of a shiver from the tips of the other's toes to the roots of that hair he holds so tightly in his hand. Ludwig tips his head back a little, his mouth falling open; and Feliciano sees the dark red stain that falls upon his pale, high cheeks – the desperate, pleading, upwards slide of his eyebrows, the snow-white crack of knuckles struggling to contain the sudden burst of _pleasure pain pleasure – _

"Ve...it's good, si?"

"Yes," says Ludwig, and it is not a word but a gasp, a whoosh of heated air. "Yes, yes, yes –" and he drags out and cries one last, plaintive "yes," as Feliciano's tanned fingers tighten their grip, pull harder...

"More?"

"Please, please –"

And Feliciano complies, smiling as his gorgeous lover's body is suddenly wracked with shivers, and whined yeses, and when, at last, he releases his stern grip on the other, Ludwig trembles, and slumps down, eyes hooded and darkened. He still shakes; and so Feliciano pats his thigh again, and pushes the back of the other man's neck carefully, tenderly, until he understands, and shifts forwards some more, and puts his head in his lover's lap.

Ludwig is so near, so warm, so beautiful with that lovely flush of blood blotching his neck and face and shoulders and chest – and Feliciano can feel his heartbeat, fast and shallow against his stocking-clad leg, and the quiver of those damp, pinked lips against his inner thigh...

"Ah, Ludi," he says, and traces the strong shape of his beloved's jawline, the dips beneath his sharp cheekbones, feels the flicker of long eyelashes...Ludwig is so beautiful, and he is all Feliciano's.

"Ludi," he says again, feeling somewhat overwhelmed with love and desire and respect and awe, "Ludi, you're – you're the best, you know that?"

For a moment, Ludwig does not move – Feliciano wonders for a brief moment if he should repeat himself; perhaps Ludwig didn't hear him? – and then he turns his head, his face upwards so he can look into the other's eyes, and gives him a strange half-smile that speaks of nothing but unending devotion and passion and – and gratefulness, or something – and Feliciano wants to give his lover the world, the whole entire world, and the oceans and mountains and deserts and forests, and all the loveliest cakes, and maybe some puppies too, if he wants them, though Ludwig says he can't look after any more than four babies, and Feliciano wonders what that means because he only has three dogs – and so he just leans over, and kisses him, and, as he pulls back, presses his lips against the other man's ear, and whispers, "Tell me what you want, Ludi."

Ludwig shivers again; and his body heats up; and he presses closer.

"Tell me what you want, ve," Feliciano repeats, softly, so softly, and he runs his hands through Ludwig's hair once more. "Tell me. How do you want me to touch you? Or do you want to touch me, hmm? What should we do, Ludi?" He smiles, and kisses him again. "Tell me, Ludi. I want to make you happy!"

Ludwig struggles, briefly.

"You have to tell me," Feliciano says, sings, softly. "Ve, I want to make it good for you too. You know I want to do everything for you!"

Ludwig presses his lips together, and nods.

Feliciano folds at the waist so he can put his mouth up close to the other's ear once more. "So you have to tell me, si? Si? I'm not as smart as you, Ludwig. You're so clever, you always know just what I want, and you always take care to make me feel so super, super good...but I'm not as clever as that, you know? I want to be, but the only way I can be is if you tell me what you like." He pauses, hoping that this has made sense to Ludwig. If only he can make his lover comfortable with talking about what he desires – maybe, just maybe they can make this thing work; make it a delicious, everyday delight.

Ludwig sits very still; and Feliciano thinks that maybe he is considering the question.

He moves closer again; whispers once more: "Come on, Ludi. Tell me, ve. Please?"

"I like," says Ludwig, suddenly. "I like –" and he swallows, and sucks a breath in, and looks downwards. "I, uh – I liked it last time...you know, when...when you hurt me." His eyes dart from side to side, before finally making that valiant effort to slide up towards Feliciano's face.

"Hmmm," says Feliciano, and strokes Ludwig again, like he is a big, cute kitty, and beams at him in praise. "That's good, Ludi...so how did you like it? When I hurt you? Which things did I do to you that felt nice, hm?"

"Uh," says Ludwig, who suddenly seems very distracted by the slight bulge in Feliciano's underwear, and so Feliciano reaches for the riding crop, and taps it almost absent-mindedly between his legs (and it doesn't feel so bad, really...)

Ludwig makes an odd sort of choking noise, like the air has very abruptly been forced in a short burst out of an inflatable object, and Feliciano just raises his eyebrows, feeling all of a sudden extremely sexy, and extremely aroused.

"That," Ludwig manages to cough out, as Feliciano's tongue begins its slow, tantalizing journey towards the handle of the crop. "I...I liked it when...with that."

"When what?" says Feliciano, and it is very hard to resist Ludwig right now, all pink in the face, and turned-on, and spluttering, and on his knees before him. "When what, Ludi? Tell me, please!"

"When you...when you – beat...me," Ludwig manages, at last, and instantly looks like he expects a smack around the head. Maybe Feliciano will do that later, if his lover asks nicely.

"Oooh," says Feliciano, "okay. What else? Tell me, or we won't be able to do it. And then I'd be sad," he adds, wistfully, and hopes Ludwig will tell him, because although the pornography he watched earlier has given him a couple of ideas, he still feels as though he needs a little guidance.

Ludwig takes another deep, deep breath, and mutters, "and when you – when you tied me up, uh...that – that was good."

"Oh! With the handcuffs?"

"Yes...well, wi-with anything, really. And, uh..." he pauses, and looks almost ashamed at asking for more, so Feliciano pats him, and smiles encouragingly. "And...and the – when you put the – the blindfold...and, uh. Yes."

He looks like his head might explode, thinks Feliciano, and he certainly doesn't want that to happen, and so he kisses Ludwig, on the mouth this time, and Ludwig returns the kiss eagerly – and when he pulls back, Ludwig follows him, so that when they break apart, at long last, Ludwig is raised up on his knees, hopefully leaning forwards, his lips wet and pink and slightly parted.

Feliciano's head is spinning a bit – it always does after kisses with Ludwig, because he's so _warm, _and he tastes so sweet, and oh, it's still so difficult to believe that Ludwig would want to kiss him right on the mouth...but he sees the look in Ludwig's eyes; that soft, shifting glaze that blurs in and out, in and out of focus...the veil is beginning to descend – just a bit – and Feliciano knows it is his job to be there for his lover when he falls under; when he sways, and goes numb, and pain and pleasure swirl into one hot, burning caress...

So he strokes Ludwig's hair one last time, and leans over to kiss his temples, one after the other, and, pausing beside his ear, says the thing he's been longing to say ever since he closed that laptop with a burning heat between his legs, and a wild floury of butterflies inside his stomach.

"Ve, Ludwig," he whispers, and Ludwig stiffens, presses close. "Ludwig – I want you to call me 'Master,' si?"

Ludwig's eyes darken and widen, and the mist descends again, faster – and as Feliciano stands, grasping the crop tightly in his left hand, and running it up his lover's chest, up his throat, over his chin, to his damp, desperate lips, he swallows, and whispers, "yes, Master."

And Feliciano reaches down, and taps the end of the crop between Ludwig's hungry thighs, and Ludwig sighs, and lets his head fall to his shoulder, and his eyelashes meet his cheek, and when, spying the other man's abandoned tie on the other side of the room, he says, "Ve, shall we put that blindfold on you now, Ludi?" Ludwig outright moans, and presses his cheek to the side of Feliciano's leg, and says, again, "yes, please, Master."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for your comments, guys! I love getting them, and I'm so happy you're all enjoying this :)_

_Warnings for this specific chapter: almost-choking._

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><p>He looks good, thinks Feliciano, stepping back to admire the strip of dark, shiny blue cutting across the skin between his lover's brow and nose in a mockery of his beautiful eyes. Like sex. Like raw sex, hot and dirty and wet and delicious. And yet...and yet there is something perversely innocent and...and <em>pretty <em>about it all, too, he thinks, and runs the tip of the index finger of his left hand along the tie as he contemplates this. There is something soft and sweet in the gentle parting of those tender pink lips, damp and willing, and in the way he leans forwards, the swell in his throat shifting as he swallows, anxiously, Feliciano thinks, and bites down on his lower lip in delight.

"Ve! Ludi! You're so cute!"

Ludwig grimaces a bit. "No, I'm not."

Feliciano seizes the opportunity like a wild, hungry animal. Trying not to squeal with delight, he bends over, grabs the riding crop clumsily from the floor, and taps it – not hard enough to outright sting, but enough to cause his lover to gasp and jerk in shock – against the side of Ludwig's strong, pale thigh.

The sharp, greedy inhalation of breath and the sudden rising colour in his cheeks tell Feliciano all he needs to know.

"Bad Ludwig!" Feliciano says, playfully, and he cannot wipe the wide, delighted smile off his face (though he tells himself it's not right; none of those leather-clad man and women in the videos smiled. But then again, Ludwig is blindfolded, and therefore cannot see him; so maybe it's okay after all.) "You shouldn't disagree with me, not when I'm in charge. And didn't I tell you that you were supposed to call me –"

"Y-yes, Master," Ludwig gasps, his cheeks bright red and his eyebrows lifted and tilted in pleading desperation. "I'm...I'm s-sorry, Master."

It makes Feliciano's toes curl – it really does – and it makes butterflies the size of seagulls start flapping like crazy in the very bottom of his stomach, and it lifts the corners of his lips, and sets his blood pumping faster than ever before – and he cannot help but giggle, just a bit, quietly, and he tucks the crop behind his back, and reaches out for his lover with his free hand, and strokes his hair.

"Good!" he says, and his cheeks hurt from smiling so much. "Good boy..."

Ludwig pushes forwards into the contact, tilting his head sideways a touch, like a big, happy cat. Feliciano reluctantly pulls away, and backs up, and up, and up, until the backs of his legs come into contact with the edge of the sofa; and then he sits down, wriggling a little until he is comfortable, spreading his legs just so.

His lover remains in the middle of the carpet, lips pursed in confusion.

"Ve, I'm over here, Ludi!" he calls, cheerfully.

Ludwig comes unsteadily towards him on his hands and knees, slowly, carefully, stretching his fingers out tentatively in front of him before setting the palm of his hand down on the floor, testing, checking.

"A little further...yes, that's it!"

Ludwig comes to rest between his legs, and kneels up obediently, silently.

"Good!" Feliciano says, and then, because Ludwig _is _good; he's wonderful; he's perfect, he runs the tips of his fingers behind the other man's ear, smiling as Ludwig breathes out and tips his head back in satisfaction. His mouth opens too – and Feliciano struggles to suppress a shudder at the sight of that soft, wet, pink tongue, twitching up to meet a neat line of straight, white teeth. Slowly, slowly, he brings his other hand up, shaking a bit in anticipation, and allows his other hand to fall down, down Ludwig's jaw, down his neck and along his collarbone (his lover twitches at this, but he doesn't laugh), and finally, down, down the heavy plane of his right pectoral to ghost over his flat, brown nipple. Ludwig twitches again; and breathes in sharply.

"Good?" he asks, and his voice is much quieter – though he isn't sure why. It's getting a little tricky to breath, to be honest.

"Yes, Master," Ludwig says, and his shoulders are tense, and his voice slightly higher than usual.

He moves his hand slowly, slowly, in a circular motion, his eyes fixed upon Ludwig's jaw, which falls open, and trembles a little. That lovely, soft, sensitive flesh beneath the tips of his fingers stirs; hardens into a tight point, and Ludwig lets out a quiet, low-pitched moan, and tilts his head to the side once again.

Feliciano opens his fingers out; traps that straining nub between them, tugs and scratches and pulls, hard, until his lover shifts even closer. Cautiously, keeping his eyes affixed upon the bobbing of the other's Adam's Apple, and the twitch of his pale eyebrows, he slides the hand he had allowed to rest behind Ludwig's ear down, flicking over his soft earlobe, tracing the hollow of one strong, angular cheekbone, before coming to rest at the corner of his mouth.

He feels the other man hesitate; feels the shift of his tongue behind his cheek, as though he is trying to work out what Feliciano wants without asking. It's one of those really sweet things Ludwig does; something very – him – and Feliciano almost melts at how absolutely adorable his lover is. He moves his fingers again, though, before that happens; plays over the jut of his lower lip, revelling in that delicious anticipatory tremble, and the feel of it, with fingers alone is so very arousing that Feliciano cannot resist leaning down, lips straining, and pressing a kiss so fierce it must _bruise _– he hopes it will – against Ludwig's gorgeous, perfect, _wondrous _mouth.

Ludwig is a little taken aback, it seems – Feliciano feels him flinch beneath him – but he quickly settles, and kisses his lover back, and when Feliciano pulls away, grinning happily, spinning in that comfortable, almost drowsy state his lover's kisses always seem to induce in him, he almost lets slip a little whine of disappointment...

Before he remembers himself, it appears, and shuts his mouth quickly, and sits still and correct and upright, trying to remain respectful-looking and serious, even when he is blindfolded, naked, bound at the wrists, and half-hard.

Feliciano wants, very suddenly, very intensely, to thoroughly mess that organised propriety up; to drive Ludwig as wild as Ludwig drives him, to make him whine, to make him gasp, to make him scream and swear and pant and _beg, _sweat, writhe, arch his strong, white back, and come apart as easily as spun sugar in his hands.

And he wants that mouth, those lips, around and against his fingers and toes and tongue and thighs and stomach and cock.

And that neck, against _his _mouth, and he wants to bite it and suck it until it's black and blue with love.

And those long, powerful legs, wrapped around his own, and his around waist, weakened and twitching with utter pleasure.

And those fingers, and that tongue, in fiendish places, and the soft eyelashes he knows as well his own reflection, and those hot palms, and that chest, and stomach, and – and –

And without even thinking about it – without even the vaguest consideration, honestly! – he finds that his fingers have somehow crept into the warm velvet caress of his lover's mouth, and he is only slightly surprised to hear a desperately aroused hiss of "Suck," slither from between his lips.

He does not neglect to notice the sudden crimson flush on Ludwig's cheeks; the way the thin, pale hairs on the back of his neck and all the way down his arms stand on end; nor does he ignore the quiet, almost relieved moan of "Oh!" and so he strokes the other man's chest more firmly in reward when Ludwig wraps his tongue marvellously around the length of his first two fingers and just _drenches _them; absolutely drenches them.

Feliciano's other hand begins to fall away from its duties upon his lover's now red and swollen nipple, and instead finds its way, eventually, into his lap, where he flicks the ends of his fingernails gently across the steadily hardening mass in his highly inappropriate underwear, and though Ludwig seems disappointed in the loss of sensation at his chest (he almost whines again – only almost, sadly), it is worth it, Feliciano reasons, because his lover shuffles closer to him, and intensifies the ministrations on his fingers.

He hollows his cheeks beautifully, and _sucks, _and then parts those sinful, heavenly lips, and lets Feli's fingers slide away, soaked and shining, a long, sparkling thread of saliva hanging between them and the upturned curve of that filthy mouth...before sticking his tongue out, licking them, in quick, sweet cat-kisses, then in slower, sensuous, and finally downright whorish motions.

Feliciano can barely breathe. "S-such a good boy," he manages, at last, and he wonders vaguely afterwards which language he spoke in.

Ludwig's mouth twitches into something that is very nearly a smile; and then he puts it to even better use, and cranes his neck, and sucks Feliciano's fingers back in with a satisfied hum, bobbing his whole head so lewdly Feliciano wonders whether he might come from the sight alone. He glances up towards Feliciano – briefly, through heavy-lidded eyes, which are darkened, and misted-over with pleasure, and something else, something deeper, some kind of peaceful, trusting descent into the dark – and it is so frighteningly beautiful Feliciano has to swallow back the thick ball of tears that starts to rise up in the back of his throat.

A heat, a burning, maddening heat flares up behind his own eyes, blazing so brightly that for an instant he is sightless – and in that instant all he feels is love, a rage for love, and passion, and utter submission, and he just wants to wrap himself around his lover until everything, _everything _melts into black air, and his head spins and his breath stops and he is shaking so so so hard, and – and –

And Ludwig is making an odd, gasping choking noise, pitiful and ah, so damn perfect he thinks he might burst from sheer red desire –

It is so hot, and he gasps out loud when at last he looks down, at the man knelt between his legs, and sees that he has jabbed his wet, slender fingers just a little further than he had originally intended down Ludwig's throat.

His heart stops again – though this time for an entirely different reason – and he withdraws his hand at once – and as though that choking, breath-stopping hand had been everything holding Ludwig upright, everything keeping him sane, conscious, alive, he folds forwards with a rattling gasp, his lips dripping, and presses his forehead against Feliciano's knee.

"Ludi! Ludi, I'm s-so sorry!" he is frightened, suddenly – how, how can he have let himself go like this? Ludwig is his _life, _Ludwig is his beginning and end and everything stretching out in between, black and white and hot and cold and grey and lukewarm, and the vast, coloured beyond, and –

And those wet, perfect lips press sweetly, imperfectly against his own and for a moment Feliciano completely loses his train of thought.

Ludwig is shaking and straining a little in the effort to meet him, stretching from his position upon the floor, unbalanced by the way his hands are tied tightly behind his back. Feliciano's own hands, cold and sticky and trembling with nerves rise slowly up to meet that handsome jaw; that dishevelled, slick hair; and at the very second he gains comprehension of their kiss, it is gone, and Ludwig's head is resting unassumingly in the crook of his shoulder.

"L-Ludwig?"

"My Master," says Ludwig, softly, and another layer of thick glaze begins to slide across his blue eyes.

Feliciano presses his nose into that thick blond hair, and he realises that, somehow, Ludwig has clambered onto the sofa to be close to him, and his knees are red from being pressed against the carpet, and oh, his breath is lovely, warm and just slightly tortured against the side of his neck. He wriggles his arms a bit, until they are free (because Ludwig is kind of heavy), and lays one around his waist, resting the palm of his hand on one of his restricted arms; and steadily trails the other down his lover's side and over his hip...and then down some more, down some more –

"Ludwig," he whispers, and his blood is pounding once again.

Ludwig presses close, closer, closer, and mumbles something incoherently into his collarbone.

"I – I'm scared I'll hurt you, Ludi," Feliciano says.

For a long moment, it seems as though the other will not answer him – and then his head tilts up, and his lips are stuck to Feliciano's chin, and he breathes _"Please,"_ like it's a prayer, and they are so close, _so close_ that Feliciano does not know which quickened heartbeat belongs to him, and which belongs to Ludwig.

His hands are damp, still, and he moves the right one again, backwards and down – further, this time – and when he slides his middle and index fingers into his lover he is met with only minimal resistance. Ludwig's hips shudder back, pressing against his hand, and he sighs quickly, in a heavy rush, and lets out that soft little whine again, and Feliciano scratches the skin of his twitching arm and kisses his heated temple.

"G-good?" he asks, "It's good, right, Ludi?"

Ludwig just inhales, deeply, loudly, through his nose, and rocks back again. His whole body is shaking with the effort of holding himself up; he is trying so, so hard not to collapse forwards onto his smaller lover, and fall apart, and wail.

"More?"

He pulls his fingers away – Ludwig groans – waits a second; and then pushes them forwards once more, harder this time.

A soft, strained "Yes," escapes the other man's lips.

Feliciano's shoulders sink in pure relief – and Ludwig's legs give out at last, and he topples forwards, burying his face in Feliciano's hair, his tightened stomach pressed against Feliciano's swiftly rising and falling chest, and they move together in slick, fluid shudders and bucks.

"Wh-what do you want?" Feliciano murmurs. "What do you need?"

And he almost cries, and laughs, and screams, and moans, when Ludwig's lips catch against him once more as, voice rough and thick and struggling for purchase against the hard, flat wall of sheer existence, he whispers: "Everything."

He would give him everything – definitely, absolutely, of course he would – if he could. But for now, Feliciano can give him these strained breaths, the burning glide of shining skin on shining skin, the shudder and roll of desperate, hungry hips, twitching, poorly-aimed kisses and a tangle of legs, and smarting red marks and bruises that he will stroke and kiss and lick come sunrise, and words of love, in Italian and German and English and Spanish and French, and in every other tongue they know between them, and he tells him this, and he isn't sure if his lover hears him, because he just continues to grind down on Feli's fingers, and gasp into his ear, and scatter the skin there, right beside his sweaty hairline with little nippy kisses, but it doesn't matter, Ludwig knows it, and Feliciano knows _he _knows because he can _feel _it, he feels it in his lover's pulse and in every heave of his lungs, every twitch of his lovely eyelids...

He tells him, too, how he is going to push him back down between his legs; how he will bind his mouth, gag him; how he will fuck him, and ride him, and hit him, and bite him, and leave bruises, yellow and green and purple, and deep red bitemarks too, all over his neck and inner thighs and chest. And he tells him how he has to ask for these things – nicely, and he must say please – and he lifts Ludwig's chin, and runs his thumb over that lower lip, which, he sees now, is almost bitten to shreds; and his licks his tongue over it, gently, and pulls his fingers out, less gently. Ludwig moans again, but he ignores it, with great difficulty, really, and moves to untie the rope around his lover's wrists.

His back is pressed against the armrest, and he stretches his legs out further, and when Ludwig says, with only the slightest flush of scarlet upon his cheeks, "I want to suck you off. Please, Master," he finds his mouth far too dry to respond. So instead he spreads his legs even wider, hooking one over the back of the sofa, and pulls Ludwig down by his hair, and into his lap.


	4. Chapter 4

Feliciano, splay-legged on the sofa, loins pulsing, heart pounding and brain bouncing in his skull as the most beautiful man in the whole entire world kneels before him sucking his cock, arches his back until it cracks.

"Ah!" he says, and his eyelids fall down against his cheeks. "Ah – Ludwig..." He draws the last syllable out; savours it, caresses it, loves and worships it with everything he is, everything he was, and everything he ever will be, whilst one of his hands strays from the cushion it was previously clamped like a vice upon, tangles with Ludwig's hair, and pulls, sharply and viciously.

Ludwig practically _purrs _in delight – in relief – in all-consuming, absolute, total lust – before dipping his head back down, mouth wide and wet and so, so _warm_. Feliciano's hips twitch up into it. The motion is beyond his control, and he himself is long past caring.

He finds himself humming with pleasure, too; and he smiles, and pulls Ludwig's hair and strokes his cheeks, and murmurs, "Good boy, good boy, Ludi...such a good, good boy..." And Ludwig shivers, and inches closer, and Feliciano pushes his hips forwards again, his lips parting and a soft gasp of pleasure tripping from his tongue as his lover takes him in, sucking and licking and kissing and loving, unconditionally. And at that moment there is nothing in the world, nothing at all, more extraordinarily beautiful that the heavy slide of Ludwig's closing eyelids and the scarlet flush of his hollowing, working cheeks.

He loves this, Feliciano thinks, his hands unable to sit still upon the other's lovely face, but instead shifting and trembling, moving from that familiar brow to those cheekbones to that neck to that hair, before sliding down to those shoulders, then to the cushions of the sofa, and finally back up again – and repeat. He loves it, Ludwig: being lost, forced down into submission. He loves this loss of control; he loves the silence, the darkness, the release of his muscles and limbs, and bones and veins, the trusting of all his motions and actions and reactions and – _everything_ – to another. To Feliciano.

Feliciano groans at this thought (and at the way that the tip of Ludwig's tongue darts across his hard, hot flesh, and does something _very _clever indeed to the wet slit at the head of his erection that Feliciano is sure is a sin, and probably thoroughly illegal in several countries to boot; but that is neither here nor there.) He can give Ludwig this – this thing, these sensations – that he so adores, that he _needs, _it seems, judging from the way Ludwig's eyes had widened so, and the way he had dropped to his knees at once when he'd entered the living room and Feliciano had commanded him to do so. He can give them to him, and nobody else can, and this trust on Ludwig's part, this sightless, innocent trust that is bestowed upon him and demands nothing in return is so pure and so wonderful that, for a brief moment, hot tears prick threateningly somewhere behind his eyelids, which are struggling against an onslaught of complete and utter pleasure right now...

He manages to praise the other man – to tell him he is doing well, so, so, so well, he is such a good, good boy, so lovely, so perfect – and to pull his hair so hard he thinks, for a second, that Ludwig has come, just from that, and his mind begins to wander; could he do that? Could he make his lover lose control completely just from tugs and smacks and bites and scratches? But the question is lost in the swirl of delight which is burning between his spread thighs, spiralling higher, higher, and tightening the muscles in his stomach.

Ludwig seems to sense his tension – how close he is to the edge – how he teeters – and so intensifies his ministrations with a quiet, slightly self-conscious moan.

Feliciano does not want to come – he does not want this to end now, really, honestly – and though, deep down, he thinks that this ought to be entirely about his lover, who is red-cheeked and misty-eyed and kneeling, lost between his legs on their sofa (which he is certain will be a filthy, sticky embarrassment by the time they are done) he wants so, so desperately come that he throws all caution to the wind and relaxes his thighs – and just – lets go.

Ludwig swallows, of course, clumsily, and curls his fingers into the palms of his hands, pressing his knuckles into the seat beneath them as he pants and licks his lips and shivers. He is absolutely gorgeous.

Feliciano recovers, his head spinning and his body buzzing like a too-taut wire, humming with barely-suppressed energy. And he manages, just about, to draw his right hand back, and smack his lover across the face.

There is a tight pause between them. Feliciano blinks, his fuzzy, orgasm-drenched mind slowly coming to grasp what he has just done. One side of his lover's face is crimson; Feliciano can see hot blood gathering beneath the other's skin in the shape of his own hard, slender fingers. He can even see circular, darker marks of joints in his bones, where the impact fell even harder upon his lover's white cheek.

"Ludwig..." he says, slowly. Has he gone too far? It is hard to tell. He doesn't know why he felt such a sudden, sharp urge to do such a thing to the other man, and his stomach is just beginning to clench and churn when Ludwig murmurs his name, and, still blindfolded, presses his face into the space between Feliciano's neck and shoulder.

It takes him a few moments – but at last he realises that this is a comfort thing – comforting for _him, _not for Ludwig. Ludwig is not shaking, or gnawing his lip, and his hands do not tremble, and his fingers are not wrenching at the knotted blue tie that covers up his eyes – instead his skin is flushed with pleasure, and arousal, and the little damp kisses he is busy peppering Feliciano's bare skin with are exactly the ones he gives out, embarrassedly, whenever Feliciano takes a look at the ever-present stack of paperwork which he hasn't yet bothered to make a start on, and promptly bursts into tears, or at night-time, when he isn't quite asleep, and something goes _bump _in the darkness, and Feliciano starts at it, fearing the worst, or when Feliciano cuts himself on a knife whilst cooking, or trips over something whilst gardening or walking the dogs, or walks into a wall and gets a bruise because he's too busy chatting away on his phone to waste time looking at where he's going...

Feliciano allows himself to be comforted, briefly – because no matter if he is _supposed _to be whipping or fucking Ludwig, or calling him horrible names, or tying him up, or all of the above, he still adores his lover's gentle kisses. He closes his eyes, feels the warmth wash over the length and breadth of his body, blossom out from that lovely point between his neck and his left shoulder, basks in it...just for a little while...and then, at last, he dips his own head to meet his lover's neck, bares his teeth, and bites down on the skin there, hard.

Ludwig yelps, and tips his head back, his shining mouth hanging open.

The bitemark is dark red, and deep, and it looks sore. Every little dip and slit in the skin where Feliciano's teeth dug in, tore, cut, imprinted, shines damply, teasingly, and Feliciano knows that by the following day it will be a deep, mottled purple. The very thought of this stops his breath in the back of his throat, hardens and thickens his flesh and heats his body even while he continues to spin downwards in the dropping post-orgasmic haze.

It takes him a moment or two to realise that Ludwig is pressing against him once again, hissing things like "Yes," and "Fuck," and "More," over and over again, like a desperate, needy mantra, shifting his thighs back and forth against one another, and once he has come to this realisation, it takes him just slightly less time to place both his hands on the other's shoulders and shove him backwards – and it takes hardly any time at all for him to crawl on top of his taller lover and press their lips together in a hungry kiss that makes them both considerably short of breath and starved for more.

Ludwig tips his head back once more, and Feliciano follows his mouth as far as he can before it becomes an uncomfortable stretch, at which point he turns his attention to that lovely white skin shuddering beneath him like disturbed water which is, save for the scarlet bitemark at the base of Ludwig's neck, upsettingly smooth and blemish-free. That, Feliciano thinks with tight and joyful excitement, will have to be rectified at once; and so he lays one palm on his lover's clenched, muscular stomach, and cups the back of his head with the other, drawing a fingertip across the curl of his ear and making Ludwig squirm between his spread thighs – and then he bows his head, and begins to lick and bite and suck, hard, at the other man's throat, and his shoulders, and his collarbones, and his lovely chest.

He can feel short, shuddering puffs of hot breath against his hair, and Ludwig's hips twitching, rising, falling below him, and so he moves his hand lower, caresses his abdomen, his slightly jutting hip bones, the insides of his heated thighs, which tense and then flutter apart beneath his touch, then he cocks his wrist, sweeps his fingers back up again, up one leg, right to the top...and then Ludwig sighs quietly, trustingly, and his thighs fall apart again, and he lets Feliciano inside.

Feliciano nips and sucks and kisses his lover's neck, and Ludwig pants and strains feverishly between the lips and the teeth there, and the slow, slender finger which rubs and searches and pushes between his legs. His breath is shallow, and he keeps tensing and squirming against Feliciano's finger. Feliciano worries that Ludwig might be scared; or hurt (and not in a good way) and so he tries to mumble something comforting into his lover's damp skin as he presses his index and middle fingers together, and pushes into the other man with more force than before. He is growing hard again, and impatient, and, just at that moment, his lover chooses to grit his teeth, and make a funny, desperate, growling sound.

Feliciano shushes him, kissing the side of his face, before gently withdrawing his fingers (Ludwig gasps and slumps against him, lips parted and chest heaving), and reaching out behind himself, searching for the bottle of lube he's sure he remembered to bring downstairs.

Ludwig groans as his lover's teeth break the skin of his neck once again, and a warm, pleasant weight settles itself somewhere deep within Feliciano's stomach. He knows very well, now, that Ludwig needs this; that he _needs_ the darkness, the buzzing almost-silence, the sharp snap and melting heat of submission; the complete and utter release of _just letting things go_. But perhaps _he _needs it too? Perhaps _he, _Feliciano Vargas, likes to feel, just once in a while, that he _can_ do something right without the whole room rolling its eyes at him; or sighing heavily, or rubbing its temples in angry frustration. Feliciano doesn't really like thinking about this sort of thing too much; but what he can think about, and will think about, is how Ludwig's eyes mist over and grow warm and fall closed in pleasure, and how his spine will shudder and his skin will flush, and how his lovely lips will meet Feliciano's, and how he will sigh, and press closer to him than he would typically allow himself to do once it is all over...

And so Feliciano smiles, and his stomach settles, and he is – somehow – beneath his re-emerging heavy arousal and eagerness to simple bury himself deep within his lover's body and just _shove _until they are both fucking _screaming_ and boneless and dripping, surprisingly calm and content with himself, and feels no more anxiousness or trepidation or even outright fearwith regards to what he is about to do.

He finds the lubricant, half-hidden by Ludwig's twitching left foot, and fumbles clumsily with it until, half-blinded by love and by lust, murmuring, "Ludi...Ludi," into a toned stomach, a tensed thigh, a falling jawline, he feels cool, thick wetness upon his fingertips. And he moves his hand between those shaking, waiting thighs, and _pushes _his fingers inside, and his teeth and his wet, wet tongue once more find that delicious neck.

Ludwig tenses up against him and his thighs spring up briefly to close around Feliciano's hand. But Feliciano remains still, and waits, and when Ludwig relaxes again, and lets his legs fall apart with a vibrato sigh, Feliciano kisses him, bites down on his collarbone, and pushes his fingers forwards insistently.

His lover's body yields surprisingly quickly, despite the way those big, pale hands shake, and grip firmly at the sofa cushions beneath the pair of them. Feliciano watches them; the roll of those knuckles, the way the fingernails turn from yellowy-white to pink as Ludwig's hold slackens, the frightened green veins calming and fading beneath his skin as his body quiets and accepts a third finger.

He spreads them – snaps them apart and together like triple-bladed scissors – and considers pushing a fourth in. His mind reels, briefly, as he thinks, then, of a fist, and he shudders all over. Ludwig pushes back a little more against him, and at the same time Feliciano's fingers move together and curl – and then his lover's mouth is open, and his back, damp with desire, is arching into a strong, beautiful curve.

"It's good, isn't it?" Feliciano says, encouraged by his lover's reaction. He withdraws his fingers, a little too quickly – Ludwig grits his teeth and makes an odd squeaky sort of sound – and reaches for the lubricant once more. "It's good, si?"

"Yes," Ludwig murmurs, his chest heaving. He raises one hand blindly, and waves it vaguely in Feliciano's direction, as though attempting to grab hold of him. "Ah...yes...Master, _please_..."

Feliciano's hand, glossy with lube, slips on his cock, and the pent-up desire boiling between his thighs, and in his chest, and across his shaking lips, spins his head and renders him blind. He pushes Ludwig's legs further apart, and grips the top of one thigh in his right hand. The image of fingertip-shaped bruises the following morning kisses his mind and drives him half-mad, and it is with this alluring, beautiful picture painted upon the lens of his mind's eye that he takes himself in hand and pushes, horribly, maddeningly slowly into the other's body.

It is tight, _so_ tight, and so deliriously warm, and the sheer..._deliciousness _of it all rips a weak, raggedy moan from his voicebox. Ludwig, twitching his hips starwards, moans too: lots of little gaspy moans in quick succession ("Ah! Ah! Ah!") before biting down hard on his lower lip.

Feliciano watches the shine of those white teeth against that darkening, twisted lip as he draws back somewhat, and slowly thrusts back in. Ludwig gasps as their bodies meet, his mouth opening again, and a round bead of scarlet blood slides steadily down onto his chin.

"Ohh..."

Feliciano, moving in and out...in and out...and in, shivers – and yet he cannot tear his gaze away. He watches that red blood; and the red flush on Ludwig's gorgeous face; and the red, smarting handprint on his cheek; and the red teethmarks on his neck; and the blazing red heat of sex upon his chest – and he feels himself stiffen, hears himself moan again and again and again – and he begins to pound frantically, unforgivingly into his lover beneath him.

And at Ludwig's next lust-thickened, desperate gasp of "Ahh!" he reaches up, pulls the blue tie – the makeshift blindfold – down over his lover's nose, pushes it into his mouth, and pulls it tight. Ludwig splutters momentarily...then the whites of his eyes show, and he arches backwards, and _wails...wails _in pleasure through his gag.

And Feliciano spreads his lover's legs even wider, and groans, and slams into him with the single aim of making absolutely certain that this feeling, this fulfilment, this unconditional adoration will burn through the other's body forever and ever and ever.


	5. Chapter 5

Ludwig's wrists are bound and red, the joints grinding against one another, and his arms are thrown rapturously back behind his head. His white teeth are clamped down hard upon the slash of blue across his mouth, and his eyelids flutter ceaselessly, irises rolling wildly backwards in their socket of strained white. The deep red bitemarks on his neck and collarbones and his strong shoulders seem, to Feliciano, to glow against his pale and sweaty skin – yet he is flushed too, with effort and life and arousal, all forand all because of Feliciano – and this thought quickens his already pounding heartbeat, stirs his loins, sends hot rushes of pleasure up and down his spine...

He leans down closer to his lover, bending carefully at the waist.

"Ludi," he whispers, and Ludwig's eyes, melting in and out of focus, open up, and find his. "Ludi, you need me to stop, pull your arms back up, si?"

A moment – and Ludwig nods – and he arches up a little, his arms remaining tossed way back behind his head.

Feliciano bends in even closer, attempting to maintain the motions of his hips, snapping forwards, pulling out, up and down, in and out. It is clumsy, and he knows it is. Ludwig is so much better at this than him, he thinks. It is difficult to get just the right leverage, to push hard enough into his lover to make that little crease of ecstasy appear between his fair eyebrows, to make his throat open up, to drag that choked half-moan half-needy whine from between his bitten lips.

And yet, somehow, he still manages...Ludwig's chest is heaving, and though the tie, previously employed as a blindfold, gags him, rendering him speechless and wanting, he can still hear short, breathless, lustful gasps crowding the back of the other's throat, bleeding through the material in a hoarse, hungry plea for more, for relief, for pleasure, and for pain. Feliciano leans in close, and he sees how the veins on the backs of his hands stand up with sheer effort as he grabs the backs of Ludwig's thighs, lifting them higher and spreading them apart, pounding in earnestly, as hard and as deeply as his position allows.

His lover's throat moves, and a tiny whimper, a thin sound dragged harshly from the back of his throat meets Feliciano's ears.

"Ludi," he murmurs, bending even further – again, the rhythm is disrupted, but this time Ludwig spreads his legs without needing to be prompted, opening his body up to Feliciano's – and so he nuzzles his nose into that sore, marked neck, pressing kisses in that sensitive spot right behind his left ear, before working his way down the sharp jut of the other's jaw.

Ludwig groans softly in response, his head falling to the side without protest as Feliciano works upwards again, over the high sweep of one cheekbone. The kisses are soft now, not rough and biting like earlier...and as Feliciano's tenderness increases, Ludwig's moans soften, and his eyes, clouded, vacant, swimming, fall shut. Feliciano reaches for his lover's leg, his left one, and hauls it upwards, curling it behind his own back. Ludwig moans through the gag, and Feliciano begins to push into him with less haste, deeper, with more force...then, shifting the leg higher still, he lifts his lips from the other's kiss-spattered face, and watches him, watches his expression, as he draws his hand slowly back, then brings it down, smartly, sharply, upon that stretch of skin between the top of the leg and the backside that Ludwig so loves having beaten until it stings and bruises and burns bright, shining scarlet.

His lover groans, gritting his teeth on the damp tie between his lips, and Feliciano pulls out, almost all the way, brings his hand down again in a loud, satisfying _smack _(Ludwig's whole body jolts and shudders with pleasure), and then thrusts back in, satisfaction burning up his body, spreading from his cock, upwards and outwards, to the palms of his hands, the tips of his fingers, and the soles of his feet which twitch on the sofa behind him. His eyelids fall closed in hazy delight, and the corners of his lips tug heavenwards. Beneath him, Ludwig pushes up, towards him, his eyes still unfocused, his whole body flushed and bitten and gleaming with sweat, and so, so incredibly delectable.

"More?" Feliciano whispers, and it sounds to strange to hear his own voice like this, half-choked and hungry, yet saying words, real words, rather than merely coughing out incoherent gasps. "Y-you want more, Ludi?"

The other nods, his eyes closing and his brow straining upwards, every muscle in his body tensing in anticipation.

Ludwig is so cute when he is like this, Feliciano thinks, slowing the rolling in and out motions of his hips right down. "Hey, Ludwig, I can't hear you? Tell me again?"

The other man makes a quiet, desperate noise through the blue fabric pressing down on his tongue, and turns his head, fighting to keep his eyes open as he gazes pleadingly upwards at Feliciano. Feliciano thrusts forwards suddenly, firmly, and Ludwig's head tilts right back as he arches his spine, a frantic little whine escaping through the makeshift gag.

Feliciano smiles, comfortingly, indulgently, and slows down his thrusts once more. It feels good for him too, of course, but he has already come in his lover's beautiful mouth today, covered his lovely pointed tongue and his soft, willing lips with thick, white fluid, and anyhow, this is not so much about him as it is about Ludwig – about the bowing of his head, the purple marks upon his neck, the parting of his hungry, trembling thighs, and the soft noises he makes that let Feliciano know he's having the time of his life. If he wants this to happen again, if he wants it to become a regular thing for them, he has to convince his practical-minded lover that it is well worth his while.

"Ahh," he says, gently, and reaches a hand out to gently cup the other man's cheek. Ludwig leans his whole weight and being into it. "Ahh, si, darling, I remember...this..." He slips his fingers down, pulls on the tie, tightening it even more.

His lover makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, and bites down on the fabric harder.

"It's okay, si? You want – you want me to make love to you, si? I know, amore mio...you want me to make love to you while I hit you...right _here_." And he smacks that same reddened spot at the top of the other's leg again.

Ludwig arches up, shuddering and moaning deliriously.

"It's good?" Feliciano asks, and he pistons his hips once again. "Si?" And he smacks him once more, right before pushing forwards, shoving into him, and together they lose their breath, and it is hot, so hot...all-consuming heat and lust surrounds them, devours them, heart and body and soul. He does it again, draws out, smacks his lover, pushes roughly back in, to the hilt, until he is balls-deep, his other hand gripping Ludwig's leg so firmly there will be cuts from his nails and bruises from his fingertips in the morning. Feliciano groans, and thrusts in again, fucking him and spanking him and fucking him again in quick succession, until his whole body is burning, _burning_ from within, and Ludwig's spine forms a perfect curve over the sofa.

His lover is going to come soon, Feliciano knows – that pale, viscous fluid is slowly dripping down his swollen length and pooling in the crevices of Ludwig's abdominal muscles – and his thighs are shaking violently, and his fingers and toes are beginning to curl into the sofa cushions.

He thinks of the videos he had watched earlier for guidance. It is at about this point that the dark-eyed, leather-clad Masters and Mistresses had bent over, whispered to their subjects, "Are you going to come? Do you want to come? Should I let you?" and caressed cheeks and throats and the wet, red, needy places between legs teasingly. Oddly, perhaps, he wants to giggle – it is so funny, and so embarrassing to say things like this to Ludwig. Feliciano knows that he is relatively short, and his facial expressions lack the fierceness that seems to come so easily to his taller lover, and he cannot make his eyes burn, and he cannot drop his voice down low and make it rumble sexily, and, to top it off, he is ever-so-slightly on the pudgy side. And so he is fairly certain that he will look and sound absolutely nothing like those men and women from the videos when he asks – but he leans in anyway, and kisses Ludwig's cheek briefly, whilst his right hand slaps the back of his thigh, hard – and murmurs, "Do you, umm, need to...do you need to come, Ludi?"

Ludwig whines frantically through his gag, his eyes slitting open just wide enough to gaze pleadingly up at him.

Feliciano is going to come too, if his partner keeps on making faces like _that_, and so he slows his thrusts right down again (Ludwig moans in agitation) and slowly draws out, massaging the glowing crimson marks where he had smacked his lover so dutifully.

"Don't," he says, warningly, as he fumbles around for the lubricant, abandoned somewhere behind him. "Don't come, yet...be good for me, please, Ludi..."

The air around them is hot, and thick, and it smells of sweat and of sex. Ludwig's hips buck up into his lover's hand, and his jaw works slowly, as Feliciano's shining, wet fingers move steadily up and down his length from base to tip, tracing fattened veins, catching a rolling drop of precome that has just beaded on the head and wept slowly down the side. Ludwig's handsome face is contorted with heady pleasure, and his jaw is set firm, and the muscles down his arms and legs and across his stomach are still, and as hard as diamonds.

And when he moves to straddle his lover, thighs spread wide, and slides himself down onto his lover's cock with a quiet, breathy "Oh," his back flexing, his eyes closing, and his toes curling, Ludwig's muscles harden even more. His hips shake and bump up, and when Feliciano spreads his palms across the plane of the other man's chest, and leans in close, just like he did when _he_ was inside, he can see the way his lover's lips twitch and tremble with barely-contained desire. His bound hands and his arms are shaking.

Feliciano lifts himself up and down a few times, slowly, getting re-accustomed to and enjoying the stretch and the burn, and, oh, it feels magnificent. He is so full, so full of love, of Ludwig, and oh, God, he is so, so hot. His skin is prickling, all over his body – on the tip of his nose, on the soles of his feet – and a thick sweat drop is creeping carefully down the back of his neck, and lower.

Tenderly, he strokes his hands across Ludwig's chest, occasionally stopping to pinch and squeeze and nip and pluck at his pointed red nipples, constantly lifting himself up and dropping back down, his head tossed to the side as he gasps and moans his joy to his lover beneath him.

"Mmm," he says, "You feel..._so_ good, Ludi," and Ludwig makes a strange, whimpering sound through the tie in his mouth, "so, so good. You're such a good boy, you know that, si? Yes, you are..." His voice trails off into a throaty moan, and he could swear he feels his lover grow even harder inside him.

Ludwig makes a muted, pitiful, begging sound, and Feliciano laughs quietly, tracing the outlines of bites and bruises and handprints with his fingertips, shifting his hips, pushing them forwards, his mouth slowly dropping open as the tension builds between his spread thighs.

"So good," he murmurs again. "Ahh...that feels so nice, Ludi, amore mio...so good...ah! Is it good for you?" His mouth drops open, and stays like that as another spine-tingling rush of pleasure shoots like a bullet up the middle of his back.

His lover, breathing hard through his nose, body completely and utterly tensed with the effort of obeying, of not coming, nods silently in response.

"Ahh!" It is all becoming too much for him, too much. His eyes close and his cheeks pink as he reaches down to trail the ends of his fingers over his own hot, slowly dripping length. "Ah...oh...mmm...are you going – going to be good?" He asks, and oh, God, he is too warm – his head is spinning – "Are you going to help Master – are you going to help Master come?" The blush on his cheeks at these dirty words is masked entirely by the flush of arousal, and anyhow, Ludwig's eyes are unfocused and hazy, fogged-up with pleasure, and Feliciano knows that everything his lover says or does now is a primal reaction, a base, carnal instinct. He is gone, reduced to a thing, a thing which he must use, and reward, and care for, completely, entirely, and love...

And at this thought, the fire inside him, in his head, in his heart, spreads, grows ten times wilder, ten times hotter, and he draws in a long, shuddering breath, and begins to rock against his lover's body with more urgency, clenching and unclenching his muscles, sighing and moaning and humming with pleasure as it builds and builds, and just as he is beginning to sob with effort and frustration, thinking that this feeling will never peak, something inside strains, struggles...the tensions holds, stretching...and then it bursts apart, and he jolts forwards, his jaw dropping and his eyes closing as he half-collapses onto his lover. He comes hard – harder than he has in a long time – his hips still twitching forwards, out of his own conscious control, and his thighs quiver, and he knows he is moaning, little vibrato "ah – ah – ahs" that pound inside his own ears with the noise of his own heaving lungs and surging blood.

Ludwig, dear Ludwig, he realises, slowly, as the release finally ends, and he is left, overly-sensitive and whimpering "ahh..." is watching him diligently, eyes wide and pupils dilated, his gaze still lost, and yet, somehow, utterly trained upon him. Sticky spots of white dot his chest and stomach, and, briefly, Feliciano wonders what his lover would look like with it all over his face. A dull, almost painful thrum of arousal pulses weakly in his nether regions, and he makes one small, final noise of pleasure as he takes a moment to collect himself. Ludwig is as stiff as a board, still shaking slightly beneath him. His arms are still stretched out behind his head, poker-straight and quaking with desire.

Feliciano sucks in a breath, his damp chest heaving and his heart buzzing. Then, as carefully as possible, he lifts himself from his seat upon Ludwig's pelvis, wincing just a bit as his lover's still hard cock slides from his body. He falls back, legs tangled together like those of a newborn deer, and somehow manages to resist the temptation to drop onto his back and fall into a deep and thoroughly welcome sleep.

He reaches a hand out towards Ludwig – drops it onto the top of his nearest thigh – and stokes him slowly. Ludwig continues to shake.

"Good boy," he whispers, "oh, good boy, amore mio, so good, you are so good..." and on, and on, and his head feels so funny, so fuzzy and confused, and his stomach is so pleasantly warm, and Ludwig is so, so beautiful, that he really doesn't know if he's speaking Italian or German or English or French or pig Latin, and really, it doesn't matter.

Because Ludwig is still watching him, motionless and silent, and when Feliciano crooks a finger, and pats the cushion beside him, he struggles up, wrists still locked together, and, with great effort, manages to drag himself over to Feliciano's side. His breath is hot and heavy against Feliciano's neck, and loud in his ear, and his lips are wet and just a little bit bloodied.

Feliciano reaches for him, and with his thumb carefully wipes away the spots of red marring those lovely thin lips. Ludwig's eyes close in pleasure.

"Good," Feliciano whispers, and his lover shivers. "Good, amore mio, good..."

Ludwig trembles, pressing even closer to him as Feliciano's hand slides down the backs of his legs, fondles him from behind.

"You love Master, si?"

He nods, his breath growing ragged as one of Feliciano's fingers circles that slick, puckered entrance to his body.

"You're so good," Feliciano continues, and it fills his heart with warmth, saying these words, because they're _true – _so simple, and yet so _true. _"You've made Master so, so happy. Should Master make you happy now, Ludi?"

He makes that lovely, strangled noise, and buries his face in the crook of Feliciano's neck.

"Okay," says Feliciano, softly, and presses another finger inside.


	6. Chapter 6

It is not the action Feliciano enjoys so much as Ludwig's responses to it. But perhaps that is putting it a little too simply. He can make Ludwig squirm quite easily without tying him up, without hitting him, without making his partner call him "Master." Feliciano can make Ludwig squirm merely by smiling at him, or kissing him in public (sometimes even in private – his partner is not at all difficult to embarrass), or by announcing that he loves him in the middle of a meeting. Ludwig is embarrassed pretty easily, when it comes to matters of the heart. And he can make Ludwig squirm as a result of more – normal – sex too (because it's always really good,) so he doesn't _need _the control or the mastery, nothing like that.

Feliciano enjoys these sessions – though admittedly at times he still worries about inflicting too much pain on his beloved – but he is fairly certain he could survive without them. Or at least he was sure. Now he probably wouldn't be able to, simply because Ludwig couldn't. Ludwig needs these times, really. He needs to be made to relax, to bow down, to allow somebody else to take control for a little while. And he needs it, Feliciano knows, because everybody needs _something _they enjoy. Life without pleasure would be no life at all.

So Feliciano enjoys it because Ludwig enjoys it, because Ludwig needs it, because of Ludwig's responses to it: he adores watching that vacant look cloud the other's lovely blue eyes as he slides into relaxation. He adores watching his shoulders slump as an unseen weight is eased from them. He adores seeing every hard string of tension snapped, pulled away, and Ludwig's body cut free. He loves seeing him smile. And so he crooks his fingers, and strokes Ludwig's hair, and croons his name over and over, until Ludwig is twitching and trembling and making these lovely little breathy panting sounds that almost sound like _laughter, _though they are muffled and distorted by the tie in his mouth, and Feliciano smiles too.

He slides his fingers, the ones that are not inside Ludwig, down to his lover's jaw, and he touches the makeshift gag that is still tight between Ludwig's lips. It is wet, and oddly warm. He pushes a finger between the fabric and Ludwig's skin, and Ludwig makes another noise, another quiet, desperate, babbling sound that seems to be half pleasure at Feliciano's touch, and half a whimpering protest at the way the tie is pulling even more firmly against his mouth.

Ludwig gasps for air as though he has just been submerged beneath water when Feliciano pulls the tie away, leaving it to hang about his neck. A shiny dampness remains on his on his chin and collarbones, adding to the round droplets of sweat that are creeping slowly, thickly, down and around the curve of bones and sinew.

Feliciano angles his fingers again, and begins to push in and out of his lover even faster. "Is it good, Ludi?" he whispers, because whispering – somehow – always feels a hundred times more intimate, even though there is nobody else in the house with them. Whispering also makes saying these things that are a little embarrassing much, much easier. "Does that feel nice?"

Ludwig nods, whines softly in the back of his throat. His eyelashes are fluttering jerkily, and his lips are curved upwards, just a little bit, and the way his fingers curl up and clench, then uncurl touches Feliciano's heart, warms his stomach and makes his heart beat a little bit faster. Ludwig would probably roll his eyes at such romantic sentiments, but Feliciano has found that, with Ludwig, all the clichés are true. He absolutely adores it.

"Is it nice?" he whispers again, and Ludwig hisses _yes _in response, the sound strained and primal and utterly saturated with pleasure.

"You have to tell me," he murmurs, and Ludwig's hips twitch upwards as he attempts to impale himself further on Feliciano's fingers, which are now beginning to search, carefully, pressing and circling, and Ludwig just shudders, beautifully, deliciously. "You have to tell me, okay? Tell me when you feel good. Don't be shy, Ludi."

"I," Ludwig manages, then Feliciano presses in again, harder, and the words are lost in a short, tight hiss of air as his throat seemingly closes up.

"Do you like that?"

Ludwig nods frantically, his fingers twitching and curling, grabbing feverishly at the sofa, and at Feliciano.

Feliciano smiles indulgently, and begins to run his free hand up and down the other's spine soothingly. There are red marks on his skin, not just on his back, but all over his body: on his arms and legs, glowing crimson streaks that will surely bruise, left there by viciously enthusiastic hands, on his neck and shoulders, small, sharp groves made by hungry teeth, and red lines along the backs of his thighs, kisses from the riding crop. Feliciano allows his hand to slide downwards, and he touches one of these marks, a long, red slice through the soft skin at the top of his lover's leg.

Ludwig jerks and moans – first at Feliciano's fingers on the mark left by the crop, and then at the fingers inside him, the ones that slide in deeper at the first buck of his hips.

Smiling again, Feliciano leans in close, and presses his lips against Ludwig's ear to calm him.

Ludwig gasps again when Feliciano traces the shape of another red slash, then another, and then a bruise, an old grey one from before that has not healed up yet. Feliciano imagines what Ludwig will look like the next morning, when his neck is purpling and his arms and legs are covered with coin-sized green and yellow and brown splotches, and his thighs are stiff and sore and still red from the crop. The thought makes him shudder, partly because the idea of hurting Ludwig is so very awful to him, and he knows, deep down, that he will never completely get over this – but also partly because he knows Ludwig will like it – and, a tiny, secret voice whispers, from somewhere in the back of his head, because he really does quite like seeing those marks, seeing those proofs of ownership, seeing the visual assertion that he can make Ludwig happy, that he can do these strange things Ludwig enjoys so well. He touches another bruise a little more firmly, a new one that is still scarlet and only just beginning to form, and Ludwig's breath catches, and he makes a choked sound of pain.

Feliciano freezes.

"L-Ludwig?" he whispers.

Ludwig does not respond, but continues shifting on his lap.

"Is that –" Feliciano says, but he is interrupted by Ludwig making a desperate little gaspy sound, and rocking his hips back against Feliciano's hand once again.

"Pl-please," Ludwig pants, and Feliciano looks, and he sees that Ludwig's knuckles are bone white on the sofa cushions. "Please, Master –"

Feliciano swallows, and presses his thumb against one of the bruises on Ludwig's right thigh. Ludwig twitches, breathing shallowly, and Feliciano takes a deep, steadying breath, and presses it once more, harder this time.

It must hurt – it must hurt a lot – but obviously Ludwig likes it, and Feliciano knows he likes it: he can tell by the way his eyebrows jerk upwards, and the pitch of the catch of his breath, and the way his back arches inward, then outwards again, in a long, languorous stretch.

"More," Ludwig mumbles, but the word is shattered, broken, each piece of it tripping clumsily over the next, and it reaches Feliciano's ears as nothing more than a sound, a noise, but the sense of it is preserved, somehow, in the intonation. And anyway, Feliciano knows what Ludwig means to say, he just _does_ – he's always known – in that odd way the two of them have that makes no sense, and so he pushes his thumb back in, back against his lover's tender, marked flesh, and Ludwig makes a desperate, trembling, keening noise, plaintive and longing and agonising all at once, and the sound of it sends a tremor through Feliciano's body and sets his heart and his bones and his nerves alight, and makes him shudder.

He imagines bruises on top of bruises on top of bruises, criss-crossing marks from a crop, a whip, the palm of a hand – his hand – and he wonders, blinking slowly, when it was that Ludwig's pleasure became his own. When was it that these visual shows of devotion – these marks of pain – mixed and joined with his own visual proofs of love? He looks down, and he sees the red streaks and the bruises, sees the creases in Ludwig's precious, lovely face, sees his own hands pressing into his lover's body, bringing pleasure and pain in equal measure, and pleasure that is pain, and pain that is pleasure, and love – and he realises, suddenly, that he has begun to breathe just as heavily as Ludwig: that he has begun to gasp and moan and whisper along with his lover.

"F-Feli," Ludwig whispers, and Feliciano curls his fingers once more, hooks them against that good spot deep inside his lover's body, and he touches his bruises again. And Ludwig arches up against him, into him, swallowing him whole –

This is the point, Feliciano knows, where he should ask Ludwig if he wants to come, if he wants to be allowed to come, and he should make him beg and plead and cry. But something deep inside him doesn't care about what he ought to be doing, what he set out to do, what he learned from those videos that Francis helped him find. So he bends at the waist, putting his face close to the other's, and whispers to him, silly little things that make no sense at all but are shaped like love and affection, and he tells him how much he adores him, and he doesn't make him sob and beg, but he holds him close instead, shutting his eyes.

Ludwig is warm, and his skin is damp, and Feliciano can feel the hard thrum of his pulse against his lips. His blood is raging; his sweat is dripping.

"Ludi," he murmurs, and Ludwig tosses his head back, then drops it to the side, makes a hungry, whining sound. "_Please_," Feliciano whispers, as though it is _he_ who is desperate for release – and Ludwig obliges, not in a crashing crescendo of relief, but in a soft sigh, a flutter of eyelids. His fingers tighten briefly on the cushions beneath him, and his hips jerk backwards and up, against Feliciano's hand, forcing his fingers even deeper one final time. He holds himself still there, hips pushed up and back, freezing as though he wants to make the moment last longer, dragging it out. Feliciano wriggles the tips of his fingers as best he can, pressing down hard against that place inside Ludwig that he knows, from personal experience and from Ludwig's reactions, feels good; feels so, so good.

Ludwig sinks back down onto his lap slowly, slowly, his muscles unwinding, uncoiling, falling slack. He begins to tremble, just a little – the movement is barely noticeable – and Feliciano moves after him, pressing against him, wrapping his arms around his chest, holding him as the shivers flicker from his warm body. They lie still, pressed together, quiet. Feliciano closes his eyes and _breathes_, slowly tracing his nails over the dips and swells of Ludwig's muscles, rising and sinking with the shape of his lover's breath. After a time he reaches up, slowly, carefully, so as not to startle the other, and pulls the wet blue tie free.

"Thank you," Ludwig says. Feliciano thinks that's what he says, anyway: the words are indistinct and soft. He strokes Ludwig's arm comfortingly anyhow, and when Ludwig sighs, the last vestiges of tension fading steadily away from his body, he sits up, and helps Ludwig shift onto his back. Ludwig hisses, his eyebrows shooting sharply inwards.

"Oh!" Feliciano exclaims, "oh – I forgot about the – I'm sorry!"

He will be terribly sore, Feliciano thinks, and immediately he begins to panic, and his hands shake, and he feels like crying. But Ludwig just shakes his head, and manages a weak, trembling smile, and Feliciano, body soft with exhaustion and relief, tumbles forwards into his arms, and rests his head beside his lover's collarbone.

They hold onto each other and lie there, still and quiet, just for a little while. Ludwig needs this time, Feliciano knows, to breath, to come down and steady himself, to allow the fierce pounding of his heart to slow. He holds Ludwig through it, his own eyelids twitching with sudden, previously unsuspected tiredness.

A slow, fat drop of sweat creeps down the side of Ludwig's face. It inches out from his hairline, and slides around the curve of his jaw. Feliciano raises a finger to trace its path, and Ludwig watches him silently, smiling, though only just. His eyes are still a little misty, a little unfocused, but he seems more at peace than Feliciano has seen him in a long time. He smiles, widely, and Ludwig smiles back, and closes his eyes.

"Was that good?" Feliciano says when he can bear it no longer, because he needs to know – he needs to make Ludwig happy. "Did you like it?"

Ludwig's eyes open slowly, and he regards Feliciano through a murky haze of fondness, amusement, and exasperation. "Do you really need to ask that?" he murmurs, and stifles a yawn.

"Yes!" Feliciano says earnestly, "Because I did this all for you, and I really wanted to get it right, and you've been so busy and stressed lately, and I really, really wanted this to make you feel better and make you happy again, so please tell me you liked it. But, oh, Ludwig, don't tell me that you liked it if you're only saying it to make me happy, and you didn't _actually_ like it."

Ludwig blinks at him.

"Maybe I'll ask you again later," Feliciano says slowly. He tilts his head back against the other's shoulder and tries to relax. His blood is still pumping, and there is a pounding in his head. But his body is beginning to cool, slowly but surely, and the heady, buzzing tension that had previously strummed along his nerves is starting to evaporate.

Ludwig lies still at his side – though after a moment he turns his head, so that he is facing Feliciano, and whispers, "I loved it."

Relief that is warm, and somehow thrilling and comforting at the same time floods Feliciano's body. He smiles widely, wide enough that if he holds it for too long his cheeks will start to hurt.

"You did?" he says, leaning towards the other enthusiastically.

Ludwig looks faintly embarrassed, but he smiles anyway, and nods. "Yes," he says, quietly.

Feliciano cannot stop smiling. "Do you think we could do it again then?" he asks, his voice slightly hushed.

Ludwig looks at him. His eyelids are heavy, and the movements of his irises are slow. There is a dull flush of red across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, as though he's spent too much time out in the sun. It makes Feliciano want to put his arms around him and kiss him, and hold him close forever and ever. "Do you want to?" Ludwig says at last.

"You loved it," Feliciano says, "it makes you happy so of course I want to do it! And next time you need, um, it, just tell me. I'm not very good at guessing."

There is a short pause. Then Ludwig blinks again, and says, quietly, "I don't want to do it if you don't enjoy it."

And Feliciano laughs, and wriggles closer, and rests his head on Ludwig's chest, which is warm, and broad, and slightly damp. He can feel Ludwig's heart beating there, beneath layers of skin and bone and muscle, and he traces round the epicentre with the back of one hand. The thud of it against him almost tickles. "Silly Ludi," he says. "All I want is to make you happy!"

Ludwig doesn't say anything for a long while – but after a time Feliciano feels the other nation pressing his face into the top of his hair. And he kisses Ludwig on the shoulder, and Ludwig makes a quiet sound into his scalp.

"I must've done something very good in the past to deserve you," he says, after a moment. The words are slurred, but lovely. "Very good."

And Feliciano smiles, and he strokes Ludwig's shaking arm, his side, which rises and falls quickly, still, and his stomach, which is slick and warm and slippery with sweat and come. "You are good," he says. "My good, good, Ludi."

Ludwig snorts quietly. And Feliciano holds him. And Ludwig holds Feliciano. And neither of them say anything more, but it's lovely: the soreness and the exhaustion and the pain all seem normal, commonplace, everyday. But it doesn't feel boring. It feels like home.

The End


End file.
